


After the Heyday: To Do Some Good

by godsdaisiechain (preux)



Series: After the Heyday [2]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Death from Old Age, Home, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medicine, Memories, Old Age, Reunions, Secrets, Separations, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/godsdaisiechain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a self-described old, old man, Jeeves thinks back to the days when Bertie had gone off to war.  And Jeeves had fought back in his own quiet way, behind the scenes, with eggs and sausages. </p><p>For the Fan-Flashworks challenge "the Other Side" and also suggested by the Yuletide prompt by Basingstoke.</p><p>There is a major character death, but not a terrible one as it comes at the end of a long, full life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Heyday: To Do Some Good

The famous novelist Charles Dickens once described the noblest course of human events as doing some good to someone and winning some love, if one could.  In my darkest hours, as I lay sleepless watching the moon’s implacable serenity as it shines through the leaves and branches of the fruit trees outside my bedroom window, I hope that I have done this.   I look out and see the place where Mr. Wooster and I made love in the moonlight.  I see his handsome, beloved face alight with affection and love and know that love was for me.

I hope that I have done some good.  It can never equal the love I won from the dearest heart to ever grace the earth, but I hope that I did some good

 ****** 

During the war, these fears had been more pronounced. Was it enough?  Would anything be enough to counteract the unspeakable horrors taking place to the north?

Mr. Wooster had installed us in an isolated country house in Italy some years before, and two years previously he had answered his call to duty over my strenuous objections.  The dear man had drugged me and snuck out of the house, leaving a long, apologetic letter full of love and hope.  I read it daily, knowing that it could be the last private word I might have from his beloved hand.  His letters from the service were necessarily lacking in many particulars.

The last I had heard from him, he was somewhere in the European theater.  I had grown used to the unrelenting fear for his safety, but at night my arms ached from the desire to hold my lover’s slender form against me.  The days were full enough with my duties on the small farm we had built together and I had constant distractions while awake.  I rose at dawn to tend to our cows and pigs and hens, then spent the cool hours of the morning in our gardens.  Many of the farms were producing well in the area and we did a brisk black market trade.

On market afternoons, I brought our excess produce into town while a neighbor watched over the grounds.  The work and exposure had tanned my skin and with my dark hair and accent, I easily passed for an Italian. Mr. Wooster’s generosity had secured us a friendly welcome in the town, but I kept my circle small. My household had frequent visitors of a sort, which at times eased my loneliness, but at others only made my longing for Mr. Wooster’s gentle, cheerful presence more acute.

I was looking at the moon one dark night when three loud bangs sounded at the back door. A signal.  I rose and went to admit the town physician.  He brought refugees, Jews mostly, and I hid them about the premises for a few days until they could travel west to Palestine. A small, dark-haired child looked up at me from behind the doctor’s thigh with solemn eyes. He was filthy and battered-looking.

“Mr. Jeeves, I have… this is a special thing.  Can you hide Alberto until next week?” I moved about the kitchen peeling boiled eggs, buttering bread, and pouring milk. The child gasped, as if it had not seen such things in a long time.

“Of course.” I motioned for them to sit, and we partook of the simple repast together.  The child ate as though he had not seen food in some days, and I was about to rise and refresh its plate when the doctor shook his head.

“Wait.  He could become ill.”  He bent to the child, “Alberto, you will stay here with the nice Signor for a little while.  He will take care of you, and then I will come back and we will go to the big tunnel.” The property had a tunnel that ran from under the near barn out to a large gate house.  We frequently hid small parties there, feeding them and tending to them until they were well enough for the next grueling leg of their flight.

“To Mama?”

The doctor closed his eyes. “I do hope so, Bambino.”  I packed a lunch for Dr. Giovanni. He tried to refuse it, but I insisted.

“If we lose you, my friend, we lose so very much,” I said.  “You must keep your strength.” He nodded then, and left. I carefully locked up all the food and led the child upstairs to the bath.  He took my hand to steady himself on the stairs and made no objection when I lifted him into my arms. “I think you can have a bath, little one,” I said to him

He was a delightfully cheerful little fellow, and expressed his delight with Mr. Wooster’s bath toys as he let me scrub the filth from his ribs and between his grimy toes. The poor thing was so slight and frail. I left his dirty clothes to soak, dressed him in one of Mr. Wooster’s undershirts, then brought him back downstairs and fed him again before tucking him into a bed.  I moved to leave and he latched onto my arm, so carried him into my room and laid him on a little cot by my bed.  At dawn, I found him in the bed beside me, a higghly welcome presence, smelling of Mr. Wooster's soap. I fed him again and then brought him with me to the barns. He slept peacefully in the hay while I looked after the livestock.  Later, he played near the hens.  They were very tame and let him pat their warm sides. He stayed close by me while I worked and, in the afternoon, rested for some hours.

Little Bertie, as I called him, ate well and grew a bit plumper and more healthy in the days that followed.  When Giovanni returned, the little fellow cried and clung to me. “Should I keep him?” I wondered.  “He is no inconvenience.”

The Doctor looked at me thoughtfully, then at the child. “You may have him for another week or two, but longer is too dangerous,” said Giovanni.  “And his mother has survived. We heard word a few days ago. She wants him back."

He would be the last refugee for some time. Three weeks later, the war broke out in earnest in my isolated part of the world.

 

It began with a letter.  Lord Chuffnell had signed a post script to one of Mr. Wooster’s letters, and I understood from his language—a reference to the brief period I had worked for him—that he had need of my help. I was in the nearby town, selling eggs and butter and cream, when shots rang out.  The townspeople looked about in mild alarm, and most of them evaporated quietly from the streets only after they had finished their business. My table was in a far corner of the square, sheltered by trees and near the road to my home. I slowly repacked my wares, fighting the sick feeling that gripped me. Soon enough, as I was tying down the last milk can, half a dozen men in the uniform of Her Majesty made their way to me. Two of them were holding up a third, who was bleeding from a body wound. And turning, one called my name.

“Jeeves?  Reginald Jeeves!  I hereby conscript you into Her Majesty’s service.” I recognized the voice well.  It was Lord, now Major, Chuffnell.  I rushed to his side. “Thank goodness.  You know, I think, my Captain?”

The bleeding man looked up and smiled before he collapsed against the men.  It was Mr. Wooster. “My god,” I gasped, taking him in my arms before I understood what I was doing.  No one seemed to think my behavior odd, as the soldiers were far more preoccupied with the small basket of eggs that remained.  The poor men were hungry enough to suck them raw.

“He tells me you have a house.  We’re commandeering it for next few days.  Take Captain Wooster in your cart.  Are those eggs?  Is this cheese?”

“Yes, my Lord, and they are at your service as well.”

Luckily, it was a small engagement, unplanned, between a special unit headed by Lord Chuffnell and a small renegade band of Axis soldiers. Mr. Wooster was the only one severely injured, and the medic was grim as he walked beside me.

“I have no idea if it’s perforated his intestines, sir. If it has, he’ll have a very unpleasant time of it before he dies.”

My mind ran wild with grief.  Lord Chuffnell sensed my distress, and allowed me to see to my master in my own suite of rooms.  Giovanni came at my urgent request. He stopped, a look of horrified sorrow on his face as he recognized the thin and injured form oozing blood onto the cot. “You must make him an onion soup, and if we smell the onions by his wounds, we can only make him comfortable before the end.  You do understand?”

I did. It was an expedient born of necessity and a classical education.  While I boiled the onions, Lord Chuffnell took me aside. “I’m excusing you from active service, Jeeves, but you must look after Bertie until he is well or…”  He could not continue.  “I’ve known him from a boy, Jeeves.  I know you have some regard for him, please care for him. I…he’ll die if we bring him to the hospital.”

“Of course, your Lordship,” I said.

“My mission was to find the man responsible for the small trickle of refugees from this quarter.” I nodded. “I was instructed to leave something for one of our counter agents.”  I nodded again.  “If I leave them here with you, you will see to this?”

“Of course, Lord Chuffnell.”

He nearly collapsed with relief and I revived him with some fine old wine I had hidden in a cupboard. Our wine cellar had been carefully buried. “I’ll take the men away so no one finds you,” he said finally, pulling some papers from his pocket and laying them on the table. “These are for Bertie.  They’re his discharge papers and final pay. He was due to leave three days ago, but he was the only one of us who knew the area. It’s so remote.”

“A strange coincidence, my lord.”

Lord Chuffnell drew himself up sternly. “There are no coincidences in Her Majesty’s service, Jeeves."

I returned upstairs.  Mr. Wooster was nearly delirious with pain and fear, but he calmed as soon as I lifted him up.  He drank the soup, and we waited. Never had I been so terrified, as I was in those minutes. I undressed him and cleaned the dirt from his wasted form.  He simply reeked, and his body was covered with bruises and sores and insect bites, but he submitted calmly to my attention.  After two hours, we still could not smell onion near my darling’s wounds.  For a fleeting moment, I thought that the worst of my ordeal was over.

“Good so far. If he does not get an infection, he will live,” said Giovanni, feeling his forehead. “I will send Carlo to tend your farm.” Carlo was a very old man who lived in simple way in a nearby cottage with his daughter and grandchildren.  Do not leave your Mr. Bertie alone.”  He paused and considered me for a long moment.  “And do not give him morphine.” I waited.  “We can make him sleep so he does not feel so much pain, but you must watch him carefully.”

I nodded, willing the tears that filled my eyes not to spill. Carefully, I cleansed Mr. Wooster’s form again and bandaged his wounds.  I treated his bites and blisters with salves and settled him comfortably in our bed.  I sat with him, holding his hand and reading aloud from one of his favorite books.  After several hours, he stirred.

“Reggie?” he gasped, looking about wildly.

“Yes, I’m here,” he tried to squeeze my hand.

“Reggie, would you bung off the clothes and cuddle me?”  He stopped and closed his eyes, pushing back a sob. “Please?”

He did not have to ask again.  I nestled him closely against my bare chest and pressed my lips to his forehead. “Are you in pain, darling?”

“Not so much,” he lied. “I… can I stay up?  I… missed you so.”

“Of course,” I murmured, treasuring the feel of his fragile body beside me.  He lifted his head and I kissed his dry, cracked lips. “I love you darling.”

“Talk to me?” he whispered, and I told him of the cheerful little boy, patting our hens in the yard.  I spoke until he slept, and then slipped from the bed.  Lord Chuffnell was outside, looking cleaner and happier.  “I’ll watch over him a while, Jeeves,” he said. The next morning, we moved him to the small chamber off the kitchen, so I could cook for him and monitor the farm without leaving his sight. He seemed so ill, but my most powerful feeling was gratitude that he had not died while we were parted.    

Lord Chuffnell and his men stayed two days, and enjoyed my hospitality greatly.  The Major kindly prevented any serious incursions against the livestock, but the men seemed happy to eat eggs and my old stocks of winter vegetables. I packed them each a generous lunch when they left.

 

Giovanni kindly found a guide for Lord Chuffnell so he could return to France. I never knew what Giovanni told Lord Chuffnell about Mr. Wooster’s condition, but the Major was red-eyed when he left us.

Giovanni took me aside as the soldiers left.  “This is very bad.  They were looking for me?”

I remained uncertain. “Yes. Perhaps.”

“What do you tell them?”

“Lord Chuffnell is an old friend.  He trusted me to find the man.”

Giovanni and I carefully went through each parcel until we found something odd.  A small metal tin.  A message.  A message for a man who had attempted to kill Adolph Hitler.  “That man is dead,” said Giovanni sadly.  My heart clenched at the danger the old, bent physician had faced.  “It will have to be some other.” By unspoken agreement, we opened the message.  _Valkyrie is failed,_  it said.

“Not for me,” said Giovanni. He looked at me thoughtfully. “For one of those ones today.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“The ones who shot your Bertie.  It was meant for one of them.” The enormity of the situation assailed me.  The counter agent had shot Mr. Wooster.  Neither of us knew what to say.  Mr. Wooster woke and called for me.  When I returned to the kitchen, some of the parcels were gone, but not the tin. We had not spoken of it, but I knew that Giovanni would spend the rest of the night nursing the wounded Axis soldiers and he had taken the medicine and food to help them survive the night.

 

The next days passed in a sort of haze.  Mr. Wooster developed a fever, and I spent hour upon hour cuddling him and keeping him bathed and calm and fed. I hardly ate or slept myself in my anxiety for him.  Finally, the fever broke.  I was washing Mr. Wooster’s wasted form and he was smiling mildly and patting my hand as his eyelids fluttered open and closed, when Giovanni came back, looking worn.  I hastened to feed him from the bounty of eggs and cream Carlo had carefully set by for us. We had missed a market day. “Please take more when you leave,” I said.  “Carlo will only take enough for the family. I cannot go to the market, but you could give…”

Giovanni nodded sadly. “Only this once.”  He gave Mr. Wooster a worried look. “He is weak.”

“Yes,” I said.

“The one… the one your Major wanted, is alive.  Wounded like your Bertie.” I waited. “He wants to speak with you.” The heart nearly froze in my breast. “Will you… he is our friend here. May I take them some of your good food?” I cannot find words to describe the anguish in his look as he begged for this unforgivable favor. I rose silently and packed two generous parcels and in the morning, I asked Carlo if one of his granddaughters would begin to bring my goods to market. Giovanni met the levelness of my gaze when I explained the arrangement, understood that I would not ask any questions of them if he needed more for his other patients.

When I went in to check on Mr. Wooster, he seemed unusually fretful. He refused to eat, and I searched out a small parcel of chocolate Lord Chuffnell had left me. “Here, dearest,” I broke off a small piece and he opened his mouth.  “Let this melt on your tongue.”  He closed his eyes and rested his head against me.

“You, too, Reggie.  You look knackered.” I kissed him and moved to reach for the bread and cheese and milk he had refused. We ate them turn about before he fell asleep.

 

Mr. Wooster slept a great deal in the weeks after that and I found myself more at liberty about the farm in the early mornings while he rested. As the cows gave more milk, Carlo showed me how to make cheese, and eventually the eldest of his great-grandchildren, a fine lad of twelve summers named Ennio, and his mother came to live in one of the out houses.

“We wanted to help you before, but it is too dangerous, Giovanni said.”  I thanked her.

Each afternoon and after supper, I cuddled Mr. Wooster and read to him.  The feeling of our skins together calmed and soothed him. As he became stronger, I helped him take a few steps every morning and afternoon.  I worried that his wounds were still so tender, and Giovanni grew grave when he examined them.

“I am not so sure,” he said each time I questioned him. “You must watch him and care for him.”

The days passed and one evening, Mr. Wooster wriggled against me while we snuggled and pressed my hand to his hardened member. “Please, Reggie?” he whispered. I felt my heart melt. “I know I’m not fully well, but please, old bean?”  As I stroked him intimately, he rested against me, thanking me and running a hand along my body, then doing his best to minister to my arousal.  His hands had grown soft again and they gave me exquisite pleasure.

“Oh darling,” I murmured. “You are so dear, so wonderfully dear to me.”

“I love you, Reggie,” he gasped as we took our release together.

Afterward, I held him until he fell asleep and listened to his labored breathing.  For the very first time I allowed myself to understand that he might die and leave me alone.  For the first time I understood how very great my loss would be if he did.

 

Mr. Wooster’s health improved as we began to make love again, and Giovanni laughed heartily at my scarlet blushes when he asked what I had been doing differently.  My heart swelled the afternoon Mr. Wooster took his first, shaky, unaided steps about the yard.  A few more weeks passed, and the exhausting season of harvest saw Carlo’s entire family helping me while I tended to Mr. Wooster.

“If anything were to happen, at least you have this time,” said Carlo.  “And we will show you how to make the sausages.” My heart lightened.  Carlo would not speak of sausage if he were certain Mr. Wooster would fall ill again.

I worried over Mr. Wooster and spent many hours holding him, reading to him and coaxing him to eat.  We were sitting together on a chaise one afternoon, and I was reading back one of his stories—one where we faced a dangerously angry swan—when a tall, violent looking man loomed in the doorway.  Mr. Wooster went absolutely white with terror.

“Is Mr. Jeeves here?” the man asked in heavily accented Italian.  “Dr. Giovanni said…”

“I am Mr. Jeeves,” I said.  The man looked at us and I saw a slow dawn of embarrassed recognition.

“I am so terribly sorry,” said the man.  “I did not understand,” he limped painfully forward.  “He said you send the eggs and milk. That you cared for my little son. You saved us.”

“You saved him?” Mr. Wooster’s small, terrified voice sounded in my ear.

“They are men, sir,” I said. “It was the right thing to do.”

“I am very sorry, friend of Mr. Jeeves.  We were frightened.  We did not understand.”  He gasped in pain, and I rose and set a chair for him. “I am very sorry.  My wound is very painful.”

Mr. Wooster looked deeply uncomfortable. “Well, I did not think I had hit you.”  

“It is no matter.  We are only pawns in this game.” I went into the kitchen and came back with the tin and the parcel of food I had packed for Carlo that morning.  “This is too much,” said the man.

“Please accept this gift.”

“You are very kind.”

I looked the man hard in the eyes.  “The message is for you. Valkyrie is failed.”

“I failed.” Another man came to the doorway and I was suddenly gripped by fear.  Had they come to kill us? They spoke hurriedly in German and I saw Giovanni hovering behind them.  “We must go,” he said.  “We see nothing but Italians here.”

“Nothing but Italians,” I agreed.

 

That night, Mr. Wooster had difficulty settling to sleep.  I held him and rubbed his back. “What is it, dearest?”

“Is it warm enough for us to go outside?”

“Of course.”  I helped him out to the soft grassy knoll just beyond our fruit trees and spread blankets and cushions.  We lay together and watched the stars.

Finally he spoke. “Did you know? When you helped them?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “All I could think was that if you were ill and injured among strangers. I would want someone to feed you.”

“You did it for me?”

“I did it for you.”

He rested against me and I thought he had fallen asleep. “You are a bally marvel.”

“I love you.”

“I hope I can live up to that.”  I waited while he collected his thoughts.  “Help me bung off these pajamas?”

“With great pleasure.”

We made slow, tender love under the stars and afterward, he cupped my face in one of his smooth, soft hands. “You are the most beautiful sight, Reggie.” I had never been so perfectly happy as in that moment.

 

Mr. Wooster grew stronger and more cheerful, but he was not quite the same for several years.  I often had to coax him to eat and he became ill more easily.  Eventually the war ended, and his aunt sent to see if he could return to London to visit.  “I’m not sure I can make it alone, Reggie,” he said, rubbing at one of the hardened lumps of scar tissue that sometimes gave him pain.

“You have been very well, my love.  But I will bring you to Paris and see what the doctors can do for you, if you like it,” I said.

He rested his head against me. “What if they make it worse?”

“Then I will bring you back here and take care of you.”  He did not like to argue, but the fuel shortage made our decision for us, and by the time we could travel, he was well enough to make a short visit on his own.

We were in Paris and I was preparing to purchase his tickets, when he took my arm. “I won’t leave you again,” he said, his voice trembling. “If you are afraid to go back, then I am staying here with you and we’ll ship the aged r. instead.”

“It is only a few weeks,” I said, stroking his fair hair.

“No,” he said, firmly. “I won’t leave you again.”  I brought him back to our humble flat and we made love all night long then slept the whole next day.

We wrote to Lord Chuffnell, who advised us to stay and offered to escort Mrs. Travers and her husband for a visit, but Bonzo was good enough to accompany them.  The meeting was pleasant for all, and Mr. Wooster seemed more himself than he had since his return.  The morning after the Traverses departed Paris, I woke to find Mr. Wooster sitting up in the bed, looking at me in the early light of dawn.  His face seemed exactly as it had when we were young men together in London.

He touched my cheek and kissed me. “I cannot believe you are mine, Reggie.”

“I am very much yours,” I said.

“Thank-you for taking care of me. You are my hero, Reginald Jeeves, my bally hero.”

“And you are my heart,” I said.

He bent to kiss me and began to undo the buttons of my pajamas, pausing frequently to caress and kiss my bare skin.  We made love in the rosy light and then I nestled my lover against me and watched him sleep in my arms.  No words can do justice to the pride I felt in the knowledge that the dearest, bravest man on earth had called me his hero.

*****

I am an old, old man now, and I live in our home and sleep in our bed alone. We spent some months in London in 1968, but felt ill at ease after so long an absence. We lived much in Paris after that, but he wanted to be buried here, on the spot where we had made love so many years before. I could not refuse him so small a thing after his goodness to me.

Someone else works the farm and makes my meals, and even runs my bath and sees to my clothes, but every day I tend the flowers on his grave and read to him.  It has been two years since I buried him, just past the fruit trees outside my bedroom window.  The young doctor frowns when he sees me outside in all weathers, just as he did when I carefully buried him with my own frail hands, but I pretend not to see the disapproval. Our friends come to me sometimes, and they kindly understand my need to care for him.

During the nights when I watch the moon through the branches of the trees, lighting my lover’s grave, I know my own end is near, and soon I will be with him again. It eases the ache in my body at the loss of him in my arms.

On those nights, I pray that I have done some good in the world.

One morning, a man walked into my yard, leading a little child.  They saw me, and the man rushed forward joyfully. “Signor Jeeves? Do you remember me?” It was Alberto. I did remember him, despite the lines that creased his face. It had been nearly thirty years. “I brought my little son to see this place.  I called him Reginald.”  I looked at him, not knowing what to say. “To thank you.  For saving me.  For my father.”

I insisted that he and little Reggie stay with me for a few days, and as before, the visit lasted much longer.  This time, Little Bertie, now a grown man, held me up and helped me. And when they left, I knew that I would soon see my own heart again.


End file.
